


We Bury The Sunlight

by Theboys



Series: Dear God, It's Me, Dean [21]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: Alpha Sam, Alpha/Beta/Omega Dynamics, Alpha/Omega, Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angry Sam, Bottom Dean, Fluff, Hurt Dean Winchester, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Omega Dean, Possessive Behavior, Possessive Sam, Sad Dean, Top Sam
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-07-29
Updated: 2015-07-29
Packaged: 2018-04-11 22:28:46
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,014
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4454807
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Theboys/pseuds/Theboys
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Doesn’t understand how Sam was denied, that every breath Dean makes is a goddamned gift, because Sam never thought it would be his to have. </p><p>In which Sam discovers some new information, and finally has a discussion with Dean.</p><p>Sam POV.</p>
            </blockquote>





	We Bury The Sunlight

**Author's Note:**

> Title taken from Failure by Breaking Benjamin.

Sam’s got every book on demon lore that he can find, lingering at his fingertips.

Lilith.

Ruby had said the name with no small amount of trepidation, eyes darting everywhere but at Sam. “Think of her this way. Your brother killed Azazel, right?” Sam had nodded warily, blade still glinting in the sun so she wouldn’t forget where it was located.

“Someone’s got to be in charge.” She grins, and it seems as if it’s against her will, because her mouth quirks downward almost instantly afterwards. “Demons aren’t very good at diplomacy, Sam. It got ugly.” Sam had snorted, buffed imaginary dirt off of his knife. Slick scent, all oil and grime.

Demon ichor.

“I mean, uglier than usual, Sam. Entire demon army. Leaderless.” Ruby leaned down and snatched up a tree branch, waving it around dramatically as she spoke, bright hair tucked haphazardly behind an ear. “And, of course, being the graceful souls we are, we might have started a mild civil war in the hopes of finding a new boss.”

Ruby grimaces, eyes shuttering to black as she struggled to regain her composure. “There were a couple of different sides.” She stops dancing around the forest for a second, her host emitting a foul scent, rotten cabbages and maggots, and Sam loathes the fact that there’s so much fear-scent around Ruby, that the possessed is in so much anguish.

“Not to give you a history report on demonology, Sam, but to cut a long story short, Lilith has more supporters than any other faction.” She sits down in front of Sam, almost child-like, cocks her head up up  up in order to reach the dim gold of his gaze.

Sam’s entire body is one taut line, and Alpha has been snarling in antagonism since the conversation began. Sam’s skin is rubber band thin on his body, and he will really regret it if his wolf erupts and he slaughters this bitch, because she’s valuable.

Underneath her air-thin words and thirst-driven schemes, she knows something. Sam was usually content to be relatively quiet when meeting new people, charmingly outgoing once he got to know you. Sam knows Ruby’ll tell him anything he wants. For a price.

“So what does this have to do with me? With Dean’s contract?” Ruby’s mouth glints dangerously, and she sits up so that she’s hunched on her knees, small hands cutting into the pale flesh of her arms. “I can get you more time. Hell’s a monsters playground right now.” She says. “It’s looking like Lilith will win, that’s true.”

Sam snarls, simmering noise, all promise and threat tangled as one. Ruby hurries on, sensing Sam is running out of patience. “She’s got a second. His name is Crowley. Lilith’s been strategizing attacks for weeks. She’s planning something.” Sam raises a brow. “Like what?”

A demon engaging in subterfuge, of any kind, sends of dozens of custom-designed warning bells off in his head. Ruby smiles, Joker full of sin. “Now, what kind of negotiator would I be if I  threw in all my poker chips, just like that?” She’s standing again, whip-sharp, and reaches out a condescending hand in Sam’s direction. He slaps it down with just this side of too much force, and he hears the bones in her hand sizzle and crack just before they break.

“Fucking _asshole!”_ She shouts, eyes dark-rimmed and blinking rapidly, soft omega whimpers mixed with demonic howls scratching through her vocal cords. Sam’s momentarily taken aback, certainly didn’t intend to mutilate her, but he recovers briskly and waves a hand in her face. “Stretch em out, they’ll heal faster.” Ruby pants a little as her eyes smolder in his direction, but she follows his advice and pulls at her digits one by one, muted hisses of agony.

Her voice is auditory sandpaper and she holds the healing limb tight to her chest, retreats an unconscious step or two back from Sam’s personal space. Alpha bares his teeth, pleased at her omega host’s involuntary submission.

“I’ll fucking tell you everything you need to know, when the time comes. All I’m asking is that you hear me out. Crowley’s gonna give you more time.” She grips at her thin wrist with more strength as he watches a burst of pain spider through her. “You can talk to him. He told me, if you accepted this, he would visit you soon.”

Ruby flops her hand around in the air like a dead fish a few times, jerkily testing its mobility. Fingers usually heal more quickly than larger bones, but Ruby’s host is soiled with her presence, ocean of blue smudged with tar, and Ruby’s face twists as she realizes that her bones have not yet set. “You’ll get your extended deal. Hell, maybe you’ll even get everything you want.”

She scrambles into his space, bullet-quick, probably before Alpha has the chance to growl at her presumption and beat her brains in, strew them across the wildlife, scent the air with demon sulfur and omega sacrifice.

“But it’s a _deal_ , Sammy. Everybody’s gonna owe something.”

Sam shoves the bottoms of his palms into his eyes, grinding them over and over until he can hear the nauseating squeak of his own eyeballs. He’s been absorbing every point of information he can over this Lilith, and he hasn’t come across anything that will help him figure out whether or not she’s mortally dangerous, if she’ll be that much of a threat to him, and by extension, Dean.

Oh, he knows of her history as Adam’s first wife, but he would rather know why Ruby is so desperate in regards to her, why he’s got demons flocking to him--and not to murder him. He knows he and Dean have a track record of being plain difficult, abrasive humans, who aren’t very good at waving the white flag.

Sam’s always felt he can’t honor a white flag that’s speckled in blood.

Sam shoves an entire volume of Demonology to the ground, huge tome rippling open at its spine. He’s immediately apologetic, has a special place in his heart for books, soft and leather worn, smelling of too-warm motels and crooked Christmas trees, shorter than Sam himself.

Dean comes around the corner, far too quickly, his face a little slack from the sleep Sam knows he’s interrupted. Dean doesn’t like what the pregnancy is doing to him, and he’s gruff in mentioning its side effects. He tires easily and seems to be generally more delicate, something Sam and Alpha are in tandem about, fiendishly excited, while it causes Dean no end to his grief.

“What the hell’s goin on out here?” The words aren’t as cutting as they’re meant, and Dean’s tangled in Sam’s Henley, all black and far looser on his shoulders and waist than it would be on Sam. His eyes are soft from sleep, and Sam scents for his pups on autopilot, can see they’re resting gently, irritated scent of Lilac subdued by the stronger smell of crisp Maple in the snow.

“Stop starin’ at me like that, Sam.” The voice is petulant, and Sam laughs inwardly, loves how Dean sounds so disgruntled even though there’s no reason for it, no ones done anything to him. Sam can’t get enough of Dean’s scent, gentle and unassuming, fresh squeezed orange juice and cold tea on a wraparound porch.

Doesn’t understand how Sam was denied, that every breath Dean makes is a goddamned gift, because Sam never thought it would be his to have.

He rises, joints stiff and uncooperative, strides over to where his brother is looking decidedly vulnerable, too thin in a way that makes Sam cup large palms over Dean’s ribcage. Spans both hands over the expanse and squeezes, listens for the faint mewl that Dean emits, all trust and fatigue, body curving into Sam’s warm touch.

“M’tired, Sammy. If you’re not killing anything down here without me, m’going back to bed.” His brother turns, and Sam’s eyes drift lower as he watches Dean’s small, freckled digits disappear into the bottoms of his sleeves, curl into protective fists, adamant little things.

Sam groans, heated in Bobby’s library, echoing around like a sandstorm. Dean turns guileless evergreens up at him, blinking rapidly in lethargic confusion. Sam captures his lips in a kiss, sucking on Dean’s bottom lip, bruising it with too-rough teeth, can feel the burn of the blood as it rises to his brother’s skin. Dean grunts a little with aborted surprise, and then his body is lax.

Sam squats for a second, little less than eye-level with Dean, and slides his hands down from his ribs to firmly palm each asscheek, soft and dimpled, easily accessible in Dean’s sweatpants. A small shocked squeak is all Dean can utter before Sam hoists him in the air, tapping gently at his thighs to encourage him to wrap them around Sam’s trim waist.

Dean complies, if only to avoid falling, and tangles his arms around Sam’s neck, fingers tugging automatically in Sam’s long hair, wafer-thin strands at the base of his neck. Sam uses his left forearm to keep Dean’s body snug against his, and wrestles his now-free hand to tangle up in Dean’s hair, press his warm face against Sam’s neck.

Dean sighs, content, almost inaudible, and nuzzles hesitantly, freezing immediately afterwards. Sam coos, walking his brother toward the stairs, pleased and unnerved at how easy it is to carry him, he can do it one-handed. “You’re exhausted, aren’t you, baby?”

He can feel Dean’s nod brush against his collarbone, brief concession. “Why don’t you rest more, Dean? I can’t--” he stutters, almost toppling over on the steps, because Dean’s grip has tightened and he’s _scenting_ Sam, seasoned nose rubbing against the edge of Sam’s ear, chased by a flick of his tongue. Sam’s died and entered the gates of Heaven.

Fuck, he’s on the throne.

Sam carries them to their temporary room, the one they always inhabit when they visit Bobby. Dean’s clothes are flung everywhere, and Sam’s heart plummets when he recognizes clear signs of Dean’s agitation. He’s always methodical about things. Orderly to a fault. Sam can’t leave so much as a straw wrapper in the Impala without a lecture on cleanliness and respect for the inherent feelings of a generation.

Sam sits softly on the edge of the bed, and Dean pulls back, clearly expecting to be let go. “You gonna stay and hang out? Not much to do up here.” Dean offers, voice low and troubled. Sam palms his face, heart palpitating as Dean leans into it, lower lip obscenely swollen, jutting out sweetly from his face.

“Let me stay with you, Dean. I miss you so fucking much.” Dean nods, tight jerk of his head, lets his long lashes settle against abruptly heated cheeks. Sam’s breath comes out with a shudder, so concerned he was going to be rejected, disallowed to bask in Dean’s presence.

“How’re they doing, baby?” He risks the pet name again, biting at his own jaw, and smiles wide when Dean snuggles closer and sighs. “Restless. They don’t--” he sucks his lip into his mouth and then ejects it, “they don’t like when they can’t scent you.” Sam’s arms compress Dean even further into his chest at this, and Dean’s eyes widen.

“Jesus, Sam, they’re your pups too, they’ve got to like your overgrown ass.”

Sam scoots back into the center of the bed, cream colored sheets with daisies, relic from Bobby’s past life. He’s careful not to dislodge Dean, places him firmly in the V of his legs and locks him in. Dean curls up willingly, fetal position, head nestled against Sam’s broad chest, soft nudges of his face every so often.

Sam presses a kiss to the top of Dean’s head, cards his fingers through dark-blonde hair.

“Don’ move, Sammy,” he hears Dean mumble, and he smells like sleep already, peach tea and ginger, encompassing Sam’s awareness. “I won’t go anywhere, sweetheart.”

Sam has no desire to harm anyone. It’s not in his nature.

But it’s not in his nature to lose Dean, either. 

**Author's Note:**

> fluff.


End file.
